


so we’re in space (doesn’t mean we can’t use guns)

by theagonyofblank



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - Space Opera, F/F, Girls with Guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 17:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4884820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theagonyofblank/pseuds/theagonyofblank
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gang in space. Also, Shaw has a fondness for kneecapping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so we’re in space (doesn’t mean we can’t use guns)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eightbots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eightbots/gifts).



> I tried to combine your like for space AUs plus a little bit of your prompt for character/relationship analysis, with mixed results. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy this!

Out in the black, everything was quiet.

Or it was _supposed_ to be, at any rate, though she’d forgotten how much she hated being on merchant vessels, with people pushing in from all directions and shopkeepers waving various wares in her face. (Her general rule of thumb was if it wasn’t food or a gun, she wasn’t interested.)

“Remind me why I’m on this ship again, Finch?” she muttered through her comm, narrowly avoiding colliding with some children.

She’d bet a hundred coins that the number wouldn’t even want her help.

“Alfred Jordan sells his wares here. He appears to have stolen something very important from some very dangerous people, and needless to say, Ms. Shaw, they want it back. He’s also had a long career in the Intergalactic Armed Forces before he quit and joined a private military firm. I would advise you to proceed with caution, Ms. Shaw.”

Private military. He definitely wouldn’t be wanting her help, then. “We’re in the middle of a bazaar full of IAF agents. Even Alfred can’t be stupid enough to start something here.”

“Well,” came a voice to her right, and Shaw nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Jesus,” Shaw said, glaring at Root.

Root ignored her and smiled. “Alfred’s not exactly known for his subtlety.”

“Ms. Groves is right, Ms. Shaw.” Finch sounded worried. “Mr. Jordan does not care about civilian casualties. Or about the IAF.”

Of course not. That’d make it too easy, and they couldn’t have that. Shaw suppressed a loud sigh. “Do we know what he stole?”

“A piece of very important code. He will likely have stored it in a drive of some kind.”

“Your one o’clock,” Root interrupted.

Shaw looked ahead and to her right. “We’ve got eyes on the number, Finch. He looks like he’s—”

Glancing away and then back again, she watched as Alfred Johnson looked at her – and then turned tail and _ran._

“—running.” Shaw cursed under her breath. “We’ve been made.”

 

 

*

“Look, you can either come with me, or I kneecap you and take you with me. Your choice.”

She could hear Finch’s disapproving sigh through her earpiece, but she faded it out.

It hadn’t been easy shoving through all those people to get to Jordan, and she’d be damned if he got away again – at least she now had him cornered in a dead end.

She watched as his shoulders slumped and he took a hesitant step towards her, holding his hands up in surrender.

Satisfied, she lowered her gun, and that was her first mistake.

Her next was to grin at the footsteps behind her, relief flooding through her. “You sure took your time,” she said as she glanced over her shoulder – and there was a brief second where she thought, _well, that’s not Root,_ followed by a loud _crack_ and a sharp pain that reverberated through her skull, and then everything went dark.

 

 

*

It was cold, and the stale, dry air was starting to irritate her skin.

By her estimation, she’d been down here for about twenty hours, maybe twenty-four.

As soon as she’d woken up, Jordan paid her a visit. She’d spent her first hour observing him, the next trying to figure out a feasible plan of escape, and the rest of the time trying to complete the mission before escaping.

Jordan was very talkative, but unfortunately for her, none of what was coming out of his mouth really fell under the category of useful information.

“Is there a point to all this, or are you going to talk me to death?”

A flash of white teeth, and then a jolt of electricity.

“Is that all you got?” Shaw somehow managed the words through gritted teeth, trying to catch her breath.

A punch to the gut, and then another. Right on time. The air left her lungs in two loud, audible gasps, and in the brief respite, she sucked a huge breath in.

“Is this what you wanted?”

The words were sickeningly saccharine and whispered into the shell of her ear. The man was so close that Shaw only had to move a little and then—

_Got it._

(Why people thought keeping valuable items on them even when questioning a suspect was a good idea, she didn’t know.)

“I want a lot of things,” Shaw retorted, coughing to cover up the slow back-and-forth movement of a blade beneath her left wrist.

Jordan laughed, pulling back and circling Shaw. “You’re going to tell me why you were following me.” Reaching down with a thumb and forefinger, he yanked her chin upwards so their eyes met. Shaw responded by leaning into the motion and, freeing her left wrist with a final tug, drove a knife into his gut – nothing that would kill him, even if he did deserve it (and by the looks of him, he probably did), because she could _hear_ Finch’s reprimand in her mind.

Shaw had been banking on the force of the movement to startle Jordan long enough for her to cut through the restraints on her right hand, but she had no such luck. She dodged a haphazard swing of his arm, standing up suddenly and gripping the right arm of the chair where her wrist was still tied.

“A little hint?”

She twisted backwards to do a full turn, and a split second before swinging the chair up and bringing to down on the number’s head, hoped to god she wouldn’t break her own wrist while doing so.

As soon as the chair connected with his head, Jordan crumpled.

It was surprisingly easy, considering he’d worked for the IAF, but if she had to guess, she’d say he wasn’t Special Forces.

“Make sure to tie my legs up next time.”

 

 

*

“Took you guys long enough,” Shaw groused, holstering her gun and minding her wrist – which, while not broken, was definitely sprained. “You missed the party.”

“You seem to have it handled,” Reese murmured, just as Root replied with a chipper, “Is that any way to greet your rescuers, Sweetie?”

Shaw scoffed, falling into step in between Reese and Root. “I rescued myself.”

Root gave her a quick once-over, and when she reached a hand out to—well, Shaw didn’t really know what Root intended, but she didn’t like the weight in her eyes (nor did she like the knowing smirk she could feel Reese train on her), and so she batted her hand away irritably. There would be time for that later.

They turned a corner, and Shaw was met with the sight of at least a half dozen guards that had been knocked out in the hallway.

“See?” Root said, a hair’s breadth away, and _god damn it,_ it was like the woman had never heard of personal space. Shaw took a deliberate step back to glare at Root, who seemed unfazed and merely moved around Shaw, delicately stepping over a guard as she pointed at herself and Reese. “Rescuers.”

Shaw rolled her eyes and pushed past Root, pointing to herself. “See?” Her tone echoed Root’s from before, and she held up a USB drive. “The one who got the job done and saved your sorry asses.”

“Oh, Sameen.” Shaw frowned at the smile in Root’s voice. “You really do say the sweetest things.”

 

 

*

Shaw liked having a purpose.

Sure, it came with an insufferable team, but said team also came with a dog – and say what you want about Shaw, but she loved that dog. Besides, when it came down to it, the team wasn’t so bad. They’d grown on her. Like foot fungus.

Three years ago, when she’d first answered a vacancy for ship medic, she would never have thought she’d have found a crew she—well. She wasn’t ambivalent about them, and that was something.

(Her role had since expanded to include mercenary – thanks to saving John’s ass from being shot to hell around the one-month mark – and a part of her thinks that’s what she was _really_ hired for.

With all the shit they do, there was no way Finch didn’t know she’d been part of the Special Forces when he decided to hire her.)

Anyway, doing things like retrieving disk drives from shady individuals to return them to even shadier individuals (and thus saving said shady individual’s life – okay, fine, she was talking about Alfred) was fun and kind of badass. Sometimes she got to save kids, or people who didn’t deserve to get hurt. It was exactly the sort of work she liked doing.

Just with less killing and more maiming.

What was infuriating was Root’s relentless flirting, but with the passing of the years, even that tapered down to mere annoyance, and then very mild embarrassment ( _for_ Root, of course).

The flirting still happened. Shaw just… learned to take it in stride.

But everything else was good.

Life was good.

 

 

*

She was in the cargo hold working off some extra steam when Root came by. (Her wrist was still a little tender, but it'd been weeks, and she needed to get it back to full form.)

Shaw’s eyes immediately zoned in on the package in the other woman’s hands – even from this distance, she could smell the grease.

“Please tell me that’s a steak.”

“And fries. Direct from the space station Argentina.”

“Hey, where’s mine?” Fusco piped up. Shaw had almost forgotten he’d been sitting there, working remotely on a case with some agent. He’d been quiet the whole time, aside from the occasional furious typing into that ridiculously small screen of his.

Root shot him a smile. “Don’t worry, Detective. I’ve got your order right here.” And as she spoke, she handed a paper bag to Fusco, who nodded his thanks.

“Fusco knew you were on Argentina?” Shaw asked, dropping down from her position on the bars and swiping a hand across her damp forehead.

“Let’s just say Special Agent Augusta King needed some help from the kind detective,” Root answered, and _of course_ Fusco had been working with her the past few hours. And then, as though she knew what Shaw was thinking (which just for the record, Root was _clearly wrong_ because she didn’t care what Root got up to in her free time, or any time, for that matter), she added, “Sorry, Shaw, it was need-to-know only.”

“You get to shoot anyone?” She gave Root an appraising glance, but couldn’t find any obvious injuries.

Root shot her a look that was a mixture of fond and exasperated, and passed her the takeout bag. “Observation only. Don’t worry, I would’ve invited you if I’d thought it was _that_ kind of party.”

Shaw nodded. “Fine by me. Plenty of people with perfectly good kneecaps, just waiting to be shot.”

There was a clatter from Fusco’s side of the cargo hold as he stood up. “Anybody ever tell you you’re a real treat to be around? I’m going to go finish this meal elsewhere. With _normal_ people who don’t talk about shooting things while I’m trying to enjoy my meal.”

Shaw grinned and dug into her steak. “Suit yourself, Lionel.” She had taken her first bite when she felt Root’s gaze on her, and she heaved a large sigh. “You going to eat your lunch too or are you just going to stare at me?”

“Can’t a girl do both?”

“No,” Shaw responded immediately, frowning – though by this point, that was more of a reflex than a show of actual displeasure. “It’s creepy and distracting, and I want to enjoy my food in peace.”

Root smiled, moving to stand right in front of where Shaw was seated on the bench, and then leaned down to drop a kiss onto the corner of her mouth.

Which—what the fuck?

“By the way, I took the liberty of getting you a new pair of boots. Black, of course. It’s in your quarters.”

Shaw blinked. “What’s going to happen to my boots?” She looked down at her boots, as though they would know what was going on.

Root only shrugged, and slipped out the door – just as Shaw’s personal comm beeped. A quick tap told her that Finch wanted her to meet him in the upper deck.

“Root!”

 

 

*

Shaw had once shut Root up by kissing her.

( _“Oh, for God’s sake,” she’d said, because she had a job to do and Root was actively trying to prevent her from doing it with her sad eyes and her resolute tone and Sameen had done the only thing she could think of doing to make her stop.)_

In her defense, she’d thought she was going to die right after, so they would never have to speak of it. Ever.

But it turns out she didn’t die.

So. There was that.

And if Shaw did awkward, it probably would’ve been – but as it was, when she was finally reunited with her team, between the electric blasts, the actual bullets, and the flying fists, there’d been no time to exchange pleasantries, much less talk about what had happened all those months ago.

Shaw didn’t need to talk about something so obvious, really. She wasn’t going to lie and say she didn’t think Root might’ve wanted to—

But neither of them brought it up. Then a month passed, and then another, and then she forgot about talking about it altogether.

 

 

*

“Hi Sweetie.”

Shaw sighed, glancing at the woman who’d materialized next to her. “Root. Aren’t you supposed to be gathering intel on Samaritan?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

She couldn’t say she minded the company – it’d been pretty silent since she’d lost contact with Finch – so she said nothing at all.

“How are the new boots holding up?”

“Fine,” Shaw answered, then, “Good.”

They fit her perfectly – not that _that_ was a surprise – and they were practical to boot. (Pun intended.) Shaw liked them a lot, though she was a little affronted at the way her old pair had to go. Turned out that trudging through the sewer containment unit would kill even the most waterproof, durable pair of boots, but her boots certainly deserved a better send-off.

When Root started down one long dark hallway, Shaw made to follow her, but was stopped by a hand on her arm. “You’re headed there,” Root informed her, pointing in the opposite direction. When Shaw narrowed her eyes at her, Root added, “I promise that you’ll have more fun that way.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

Root pressed in close, and Shaw was surprised she didn’t immediately feel the urge to back away. This time, Shaw leaned in first, closing the distance between them.

“I’m not,” Root smirked as she pulled away. Shaw decided she liked the way Root’s eyes lingered on her lips. “But you might want to grab the extra gun in the left drawer when you get to your destination.”

“And where exactly is that?”

“Finch will tell you.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to hap—” Shaw stopped when the familiar crackle of static came through, followed by Finch’s voice. “Yes, I’m here.”

Root beamed at her as Finch talked about having to circumvent the communications blocker that had been activated as soon as Shaw had stepped onto the ship’s bridge. “Have fun, Sameen.”

“You too,” Shaw replied, watching as Root practically sashayed down the hall, both guns at the ready. When two guards came round the corner and rushed her, she shot one in the arm and the other in the leg.

It was kind of hot.

“What was that, Ms. Shaw?”

“Nothing at all, Finch.” Shaw shook her head, grinning as she turned to head the other way. “Let’s get to work.”

(Like she said, there were plenty of knees waiting to be capped.)

 

 

*


End file.
